Had to Fall
by XMarisolX
Summary: Sidney's night with Gloria. Excerpt: At this moment, his mind is caught in a miasma of sexual frustration and the overconsumption of alcohol. And he has a feeling that one of those things is going to be resolved sooner than the other.


**Disclaimer:** Grantchester is a British drama written by Daisy Coulam based on a series of novels by James Runcie. It is produced by Diederick Santer and Rebecca Easton for Lovely Day and Masterpiece, and airs on ITV. All characters, plots and creative elements derived from the source material belong exclusively to their respective owners. I, the author of the fan fiction, do not, in any way, profit monetarily from the story.

* * *

_Sweetest miss, with a kiss full o' bliss, can't resist somehow  
Tells me lies, but she's wise, naughty eyes, mesmerise I vow, and how  
I don't mean maybe, I just had to fall  
I've found a new baby, new baby that's all_

_—_From the jazz standard "I Found a New Baby"

* * *

At his ordination, Sidney Chambers made a vow that he would endeavour to fashion his own life according to the way of Christ so that he would be a pattern and example to Christ's people. What that means, exactly, wasn't explicitly stated at the time, but suffice to say, it likely precludes a life of alcohol, tobacco, and casual sex. At this moment, however, his mind is caught in a miasma of sexual frustration and the overconsumption of alcohol. And he has a feeling that one of those things is going to be resolved sooner than the other.

Plodding in the back of a town car much more luxurious than any vehicle he's ever ridden in, he slowly turns his head to the right, and struggles to focus his cloudy eyes on the woman sitting there beside him: Gloria Dee. _The_ Gloria Dee—the American jazz singer that has spent the last month gracing London with her other-worldly talent. She's sat there—beautiful and bright—like a radiant angel sent from above. Or perhaps a creature significantly less virtuous, but—vicar or no vicar—her allure is not lost on him. Her skin is bronzed and flawless, her smile coquettish and fetching, her mischievous demeanour is infectious…

And her voice.

"Did you like my singing tonight?" she asks, the seductive heft in her words literally pulling him forward, and he slumps towards her just a little, propped up by his arm and the fingers that just barely brush up against her leg. He nods in answer to her question.

"Good," she says, and pulls an ever-present cigarette from the clutch on her lap. She makes a show of searching for something and then looks at him. "Got a light?" she asks.

Sitting up, he pats his own pockets, and then produces the lighter, before gently lowering it in her outstretched, manicured hands.

"Thank you," she says and, lighting the cigarette, places it between her red-stained lips, drawing the intoxicating smoke into the same lungs that wowed tonight's crowd. Wordlessly, she hands it to him and—after a moment of contemplation—he takes a drag as well before handing it back. She only seems to relish the smoke that much more. He doesn't say anything when she puts his lighter into her purse.

"Where are we going?" he asks, and there is a fatigue in his voice that even _he_ recognizes.

A grin curls on her lip. "Don't you know?" she says, and then another puff on her smoke.

Sidney _does_ know. He doesn't answer.

They come to a stop and, after her tacit confirmation, he opens the door and alights from the car, then reaches in to help her out, despite the fact that she seems much more alert and present than he does. She marches towards the door of an unimpressive block of flats as he tarries on the kerb. She turns around. "You coming up?" she asks.

He follows.

* * *

Without turning on the light, she tosses her purse into a chair and saunters directly to the toilet. "Make yourself at home," she calls over her shoulder as she shuts the door behind her. In the faint light trickling in from the street lamps outside, Sidney manages to take stock of his surroundings. Gloria's accommodations don't seem fit for a performer of her calibre. He imagined she'd be staying in a grand hotel, not in this simple room that's scarcely better than the vicarage hostel from the night before.

He thinks it might be nice to have a seat, and is debating between the chair (which is currently servicing her purse) and the…_bed_, when the toilet door suddenly swings open to reveal Gloria, disrobed, in what could be tastefully called 'underclothes'.

"I thought I told you to get comfortable," she says, leaning against the door frame. Her body is backlit and almost in silhouette; her delicate curves are on full display and her hair falls loose around her shoulders. The sultry lines of her figure are broken only by the cigarette dangling daintily from one hand. "Yet," she continues, walking forward, "you're standing in the same spot where I left you." She walks over to her vanity and lifts a decanter with her unoccupied hand, filling a single glass. "Bourbon's alright?" she asks, and when he doesn't answer, she takes his silence for consent. She comes over and draws close to him—very, _very_ close—and without touching, hands him the glass. He takes it and, after staring into the golden liquid, downs it in a single gulp. "Let _me_ have a taste," she says playfully, and pulls herself up to his face, gently kissing him. "Mmm," she moans, licking her lips. "My favourite."

She smells of lavender and her skin feels so soft, brushed up against his. He lowers his head down to hers, closes his eyes, purses his lips and then…

Nothing.

"What you waiting for?" she rasps just above a whisper as they stare into each other's eyes. He doesn't answer, but their lips and noses and eyes and _breath_ are so close he can feel the warmth emanating from her body. He's not a virgin; he's done this before—back before the war, before he made vows, and before he entertained a pretty girl who made chaste jaunts down to Grantchester. This used to be easier.

Gloria scans his face, and the levity from her eyes is gone, replaced with something more perceptive…tender, even. "Don't be a good boy tonight, Sidney," she whispers, and strokes his cheek. "Not _tonight_. Even preachers deserve to feel _good_ sometimes."

Whatever scant vestige of restraint is left in him flees at that moment, and he gives himself over to the urging in his gut. He presses his lips against hers, purposefully and strongly, and pushes both palms into her back, her body falling into his embrace. She returns his urgency, her kisses full of longing and yearning and lust. Her hands waste no time in unfastening the buttons of his shirt, and a chill goes through him when an errant finger brushes against his nipple. Releasing her, he undoes his belt buckle, and he can feel the flush of something tingly and warm—be it alcohol or desire—surge through him. Casting his shirt and trousers to floor, he lifts her up and places her onto the bed and over the sheets.

Crouching over her—this beautiful woman tucked under his arms, with little between them but beads of sweat and the thinnest of cloth—something soothing comes over him: the feeling of letting go. Lowering his body to hers, he gropes for release, and his breath catches as she says his name.


End file.
